


tall tales

by apocryphic



Series: mcgenji week 2017 [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dragons & Deadeye Headcanons, Early Relationship, M/M, Post-Recall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 10:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12862437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphic/pseuds/apocryphic
Summary: It was a curious little habit sometimes, with Genji on Blackwatch missions — when McCree was taking slow, slow breaths; when he was waiting to pull the trigger; when the whole world went silent and everything was honed down to a strict, focused, pinpoint number of targets — he would get the strangest feeling, that if he was planning on firing on Genji, he should double-tap the trigger.---day 4 of mcgenji week 2017: steel /soul





	tall tales

**Author's Note:**

> this is essentially just a really long way to showcase headcanons of mine
> 
> rated m for a lil bit of vague nsfw

_Deadeye's_ always been an old friend of McCree's, a way of explaining his aim without putting too much thought into it. Back when he first joined Blackwatch, Reyes sat him down after the first time he made it to the base, once he was cleared to join for real rather than just in name. Reyes asked, "What's your trick?" because, McCree figured, the idea of a kid outshooting his best crew of agents was possibly something to be ashamed about. Reasonable, logical Reyes must have thought, _there's gotta be a trick somewhere._ And the words were out of stupid, young, foolhardy McCree's mouth faster than he could stop them —

"S'called Deadeye," he said, and narrowed his gaze right at Reyes, all sharp and distrustful still. "Can shoot right through somebody's _soul_."

Reyes stared at him for all of a few seconds before laughing his ass off, and in hindsight, McCree thinks that was probably the best choice.

He believed his own bullshit lie back then, too. Shooting souls. It's not nearly that complicated, when it gets right down to the nitty-gritty. And Amari leveled the same question at him while honing his ability to fire a rifle, a sniper, a pistol — everything that wasn't a shitty, old revolver.

"How do you find your aim?" she asked. "I've heard you're very good already."

By that time, McCree'd gotten wiser. And he didn't want to be a smartass to _her_ , of all people, so he tucked away the 'souls' remark and instead went for honesty: "I don't know," he told her at the time, swapping a bullet casing back and forth between his fingers. "I just do."

Later on, he would get something or another explained to him by one of the Blackwatch doctors, in the process of marveling at his records in the firing range and during missions alike — _it's intrinsic, entirely procedural, he's more familiar with a gun than with breathing, the control results are the same!_ He was offered an fMRI, all sorts of tests without any real compensation, and he snapped a clean, "No, thanks" and walked out. Not that he'd agree to anything even with money at the other end of it. It never mattered to him _how_ he did it. In McCree's experience, asking too many questions and looking too deep was how to ruin a good thing.

But it was a curious little habit, sometimes, even further along than that with Genji on Blackwatch missions — when McCree was taking slow, slow breaths; when he was waiting to pull the trigger; when the whole world went silent and everything was honed down to a strict, focused, pinpoint number of targets — he would get the strangest feeling, that if he was planning on firing on Genji, he should double-tap the trigger. One-two, instead of one-and-done.

Not that he'd ever _want_ to shoot him. It was all reflex, no real threat at all behind the urge, and McCree's trigger discipline had always been excellent, so there was nothing to worry about. For the longest time, he had no idea what it meant.

Then Genji pulled a fucking _dragon_ out of his sword.

And McCree started wondering if he'd been onto something with the whole souls thing.

 

 

Years later finds them on matching cots in Gibraltar's infirmary after an unfortunate run-in with some hacked, large robots, all courtesy of Talon. McCree's missing his metal arm, has red still staining his smeared and split upper lip, is nursing possibly the meanest migraine he's ever housed in his head, and would kill for his broken ribs to stop aching with every beat of his heart. Genji's not in much better state — one arm's totally gone at the shoulder, he looks as if a chunk's been torn out from his middle, and there's an ugly break in the side of his prosthetic jaw. (McCree thinks he still looks handsome, though, even with wires spitting out every which way from his midriff. His hand itches to shove it all back in for him, make him look less — wrong.)

"Angie's gonna kill us one of these days," McCree huffs, then whines at the way his ribs constrict when he speaks.

"With the situations we get into, I expect that she may have to get in line," Genji says. He sounds exhausted, but there's still a glitter to his eyes, which tells McCree that the conversation is better for him than the silence and beeping of medical equipment.

"You hurting bad?"

"I have had worse."

There's an edge to the response that McCree instantly dislikes, as much as Genji tries to hide it with the playful cadence. "Yeah, so've I, but…" He loses his train of thought, aching parts and painkillers battling it out in his head. McCree gives up and waves the hand he's still got on him at Genji's stomach, or what's left of it. "The hell's coming outta your abdomen?"

Genji shrugs. Or tries to. It's hard to tell. "There are very few artificial nerves there. Reconstruction should not be so difficult."

McCree groans in pretend irritation, and then groans for real when it hurts. "I'm trying to fret over you, sweetheart. Let me do my thing. It makes me feel better."

"Oh," Genji says, brightening. He settles more deeply into his bed. "Then… I believe my _abdomen_ is coming out of my abdomen."

"I take it back, I feel worse now." McCree makes a face, split lip stinging. He waits until Genji is done laughing (the little hitches of discomfort aren't something McCree's ears miss; he stays quiet in sympathy) to ask: "So, that... dragon... of yours. How's it doing? It, uh… take any bullets, or?"

He sounds like a fool and is fully aware of it, but from the brief conversations they've had about Genji's dragon, McCree doesn't know enough to _not_ sound like a fool. He knows it's a Shimada thing, knows that it seems to be attached to Genji's blade in some way and that Genji seems to be reluctant to make use of it unless pressured, which they had been. McCree had never been so happy to see that blinding green light up and come to life. Whether it's an actual spirit — which McCree wouldn't be so surprised at, really —or just some fancy, advanced tech, is all up in the air.

Which is why he feels like an idiot for ever asking after its well-being. He can blame it on the painkillers, later.

To his dazed, medicated relief, Genji looks at him funny for only a second before he shakes his head. "It cannot be harmed by bullets." A smirk plays across his expression, but McCree notes that it seems pained, though the light remnants of laughter in his tone don't escape McCree's notice.

"Oh. S'good, then." Because Genji had whipped the sword and the accompanying dragon out in the middle of a gunfight between them and several very large robots, and McCree would be incredibly sorry if any bullets went so wayward.

Which reminds him of Deadeye and shooting souls; were spirits just souls? And what the hell did _that_ mean, if McCree could do something like that, honest-to-goodness, and it wasn't just a stupid idea all along?

There he goes, thinking on it too much. Ruining a good thing. His head still hurts; he blames it all on the migraine.

Angela comes in then with Zenyatta in tow. Genji and the monk have a hushed conversation, with several of Zenyatta's orbs floating along with the quiet talk. The headache disappears almost immediately; Jesse falls asleep again with the rhythmic chiming of the orbs echoing around in his mind and between his ears, not unlike a metronome.

Long outside of a pain-addled stupor, McCree recognizes that if spirits really existed in the world, he'd probably be long-gone, full-on dead to rights, because he's killed quite a few people who are most likely very pissed off with him even in the afterlife. Or wherever spirits come from. He doesn't like to think about it, because it complicates the world he lives in enough. He's not some kid straight out of Deadlock anymore. In fact, he's moseying on to the end of his thirties and hasn't seriously considered the idea of shooting anyone's soul in a long, long time. Turns out, he's just a damn good shot. And that's fine.

And it would still be fine if Genji's got an honest, real spirit on him, somehow. Completely fine.

"It isn't a spirit," Genji says with amusement when McCree's curiosity gets the better of him one night and he actually dares to bring it up.

McCree looks at him searchingly. "I mean, I reckoned," he says defensively. "Ain't no such thing."

"Is that why you were so concerned last month, after —"

"After the mission went to hell, yeah," McCree mutters. "I didn't know. Figured if I sounded like an idiot, at least I was a concerned idiot." He runs his hand over Genji's abdomen, as if remembering just how much damage was done. "Besides. Y'don't pull that sword out unless we really need it."

Genji kisses him at that, and presses him down into the bed for the second time that night, which results in McCree straddling him in a flimsy attempt at maintaining coherency over his faculties. The sheets end up tangled around their legs together. It's going to be a terrible and undignified mess when they try to free themselves.

"What is it, then?" McCree asks, a little breathless as Genji holds him tight at his hips.

"You're really so curious?" he replies, as if surprised. There's another pause where nothing much happens more than McCree's skin burning because Genji tugs him down to kiss him again. "I used to have a tattoo, you know," Genji says against his mouth.

"Yeah, and," McCree prods, because he used to have a tattoo too, and then his arm got sliced off. He supposes Genji's story is much the same.

Genji does something cruel with his fingers then that makes McCree curse and shiver, and so Genji does it again, because McCree is easily the more predictable one of them in bed, even when they're trying to have some half-assed conversation. A conversation that's very intermittent, of course, because Genji likes to hear him try and fail at verbally expressing himself. Not that McCree isn't enjoying himself. He _is_. Very much.

"The ink is very complex," Genji goes on, and McCree takes a couple seconds to follow, grasping at lost strands of the discussion. "Vishkar has been publicly utilizing hard light technology for quite a while now." He kisses at McCree's neck and McCree huffs and grinds against him instead; it's Genji's turn to swallow sounds that threaten to slip out. McCree isn't humble enough not to grin at his little victory.

"You're saying the Shimadas got their hands on that tech faster than Vishkar?" McCree asks when he's done being smug.

Genji's retribution is swift and heated; McCree bites his tongue so hard he nearly swears he tastes blood.

"Where do you think the bulk of their funding came from?" Genji smiles slightly. Beneath McCree, his hair is a wild mess, which is both the fault of his helmet and McCree's hands. McCree puts a palm against Genji's cheek, a thumb against his lower lip, and is granted a little kiss for his efforts. "It is complex, as I said. In any case, it is much easier to imbue a sword with similar abilities."

"Must be the biggest secret the Shimadas got, then."

"Oops," Genji says dryly, sounding not the least bit apologetic.

It doesn't explain away the urge to double-tap Genji in the impossible event of a betrayal (impossible, _impossible_ ), but it explains away everything else. Could be that he’s just plenty aware that Genji’s too good for only one bullet. But McCree's not a masochist enough to think any harder about it. He just lets himself be swept up in _not_ thinking about anything at all.

 

 

"So what's this about you shooting _souls_?" Genji says, entertained, on some lazy day.

Amari turns her face away from the instant glare that McCree sends in her direction. Nobody else would've known about that. _Traitor_ , he thinks.

"Don't worry about it," McCree tells him.

 


End file.
